


Peace & Poetry

by TigerLilyNoh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sam drinks tea and braids hair, Sam recites poetry, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, This is just some wholesomeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 21:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerLilyNoh/pseuds/TigerLilyNoh
Summary: A reader requested some Sam & Ruby fluff.So here's a short little one shot of fluffiness complete with a little poetry, tea, and reading by a crackling fire.





	Peace & Poetry

The power was out in their cabin.  Sam attributed it to the combination of poor foresight, being preoccupied with the happenings of Hell, and an unexpectedly powerful storm in the middle of an otherwise calm autumn.  Ruby had dubbed it dumb luck and disregarded the potential inconvenience with a shrug before returning to her valiant attempt at eating the remaining pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream before the freezer began to thaw.

Rather than call it an early night and retreating to bed, Sam decided to take advantage of the calm amongst the figurative and literal storm.  He started a fire in the fireplace, made himself a pot of Earl Grey tea, poured a cup, and grabbed his beat up copy of An Inquiry Into the Good.  He sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace with his back against the base of a plush armchair.  It was a sitting-on-the-floor-and-reading-by-flame sort of evening.

The sound of a particularly strong downpour engulfed their cabin, offering cover to the clinking of a bowl being placed in the sink and whatever other actions Ruby took in the shadows.  She moved about, undoubtedly checking the other rooms in a manifestation of the diligence that he so admired.  Despite an occasional glance as she came and went, he didn’t bother getting up.  They were safe, capable, and in that blissfully lull that allowed moments as simple as enjoying a book in silence.

He’d managed to get through several dense pages when Ruby emerged from their bedroom.  She had changed into those little skin-tight pajama bottoms that could only reasonably be described as boy shorts and a soft t-shirt with no bra.  He’d grown to appreciate those sorts of clothes more than anything leather or lace that she would sometimes wear.  Her comfort and the sincerity of her in that moment was its own sort of beauty.

She walked around the small living room, stopping occasionally to light half a dozen candles resting on assorted tables and shelves.  Each flame sparked into life through some unnatural means—the carefree magic of a true master in her craft.  The candlelight set off her gentle curves against the darkness and her nimble hands moved gracefully as she worked.  Despite the downpour having ended, her bare feet didn’t make a sound as she moved, a testament to the light footedness that he more often saw in combat.

After lighting the last candle, she knelt down on the floor, planting a kiss on his earlobe before lying down on the small area rug in front of him.  Her head nestled in his lap and the warm glow of the fire illuminated the length of her body.  She was holding a small paperback book that looked more like a hand-written pamphlet, which she opened and began reading.

He managed to last several minutes before succumbing to his curiosity.  “Spellbook?”

“Partially.”  Ruby’s fingers traced the text with a thoughtfulness that intrigued him.  “It’s a guide to wiccemetercræft, an old branch of enchantment that uses the….”  She softly chewed her lower lip as she tried to find a way to articulate some lost arcane art.  “It’s a music of words, like poetry that holds power.”

“Is there poetry in there?”

Sam put down his own book, thoroughly distracted by Ruby’s explanation.  His fingers absentmindedly ran through her silky, dark brown hair, eliciting a hum of appreciation.

“Not your usual sort of poetry.”  She flipped a few pages.  “It might take me awhile to find one that I can read to you without turning the sky upside down—not that that’d be a huge problem right now.”

“I’m guessing someone would eventually notice it raining upwards,” he countered.  “You know, showing off one’s ancient tomes as light reading is how most tabloid articles start.”

“When I find something tamer on the laws of nature I’ll read you a bit.  But it’s in Akan, so you probably won’t be committing anything to memory this time around.”

“It’ll be nice just to hear,” he replied.  Whether he understood the meaning or not, he always enjoyed listening to her speak in one of the dozen languages she’d acquired over her many lifetimes.

He started slowly braiding her hair while allowing her to get back to her book.  When she realized he was up to something, her fingers reached up and inspected what he was doing.  She touched the forming braid, rolled her eyes in a little smirk, then stuck out her tongue, but didn’t ask him to stop.  Instead she took his hand and pulled it to her lips.  After giving him a delicate kiss, she returned his hand to her hair to resume his idle activity.

As she read she hummed a delicate rhythm, which drifted and wavered uncertainly in the air, pieced together from mere written words and her intuition.  The tune reminded him of William Blake’s The Tyger.  It felt right set against the distant howl of the wind in the trees and the flickering flames amidst the darkness.  When she repeated the beat a third time, he dared to interrupt her thoughts with a little offering—She always did enjoy when he’d recite poems for her.

“Tyger Tyger, burning bright,   
In the forests of the night;   
What immortal hand or eye,   
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

“In what distant deeps or skies.   
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?   
On what wings dare he aspire?   
What the hand, dare seize the fire?   
  
“And what shoulder, & what art,   
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?   
And when thy heart began to beat,   
What dread hand? & what dread feet?   
  
“What the hammer? what the chain,   
In what furnace was thy brain?   
What the anvil? what dread grasp,   
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!   
  
“When the stars threw down their spears   
And water'd heaven with their tears:   
Did he smile his work to see?   
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”

She reached up and cupped his cheek, cutting off the end of the poem.  “Are you the tiger or the lamb?”

“I was talking about you, and there isn’t any question which you are,” Sam explained.  Though he considered her question.  “These days… I’m just a man—neither tiger nor the lamb.”

Ruby smiled slightly at his involuntary rhyme, then shifted to no longer be immobilizing his legs.  She took his hand and guided him to lie down beside her.  His arms wrapped around her as he spooned her.  Her body was soft, warm comfort—between him and the flame, taming some of the heat.  The aptness of the moment made him kiss the back of her neck, eliciting a content sigh as he dragged his lips along her flesh.

“You’ve moved Heaven and Hell.”  Her voice had a purr of affectionate pride in it that made all their past trials and hardships worthwhile.  “You might not be the tiger or the lamb, but you are so much more than just a man.”

“Then all I know of what I am.”  He took her hand and pulled it to his lips.  “Is that I’m lucky to be here with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I take fic requests through my Tumblr account @TigerLilyNoh. Just be sure to specify if you want a request set in an AU or anything.


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